Smartystan

In the process of signing books, Dr. Strong felt a sense that he had connected with these people. His audience ranged from sixteen-year-old high school students to seasoned university professors like himself. He counted on the book sales, of course, but he enjoyed connecting with the people behind the pages and listening to audio files.

“I listen to you right before I go to sleep,” a woman who must’ve been in her fifties admitted to the author and entrepreneur.

“Yes, well, that must be a compliment,” he replied.

“It certainly is. Keep writing these economics books that read like thrillers.”

He shook her hand and smiled. Some small part of him wanted the critics to hear what this lady had just said. Often maligned for being too didactic or packed to the gills with oversimplifications and pandering, Dr. Strong knew that he could continue to balk at the critics who said a lot and did even less.

After the round was over and the people had left, he looked in real time at just how many books he sold. One hundred and eight stood as the total number of tomes he had dispensed to happy customers like the woman who scurried off with a smile on her face.

When Dr. Strong had reached his house, he paid the synth driver and entered his home. Lights and a Phyllis Deaver symphony began to illuminate and play, respectively. A ready meal that he received through a delivery service consisted of garlic potatoes, seared asparagus, and steak cooked rare. The aroma wafted through the kitchen into the dining room. A female synth appeared and sat at the table with him. This company kept him in good health and standing. He could chow down on a meal and be enchanted by the woman-like synth. As he ate, he noticed the number of books sold had diminished compared to his last book signing. That was when he was on the road through the rest of the United States where they desperately wanted to better understand the new country-state. People already living there either wanted to dive into his words or remained reticent for the most part about his work.

The female synth didn’t laugh at all of his jokes. Instead, she looked like a stoic figure, resting her palm on her cheek. Sure, she chuckled a bit at a story about old professors and his days back at New Sweden. She yawned.

“If you would like to suspend this evening, it’s totally up to you,” he announced.

“Yes, I think I will. Thank you for allowing me to be here,” the synth said and slid out of her chair and into the next room. “If you want bedroom companionship, just let me know.”

“I’ll do that,” Dr. Strong said. He grinned. Once he finished his meal he looked at the numbers again. They had gained slightly but still didn’t match the figures from outside of Smartystan. He shrugged. He knew the digital formats would be great no matter what. His phone rang.

“Vestin! How are you, young man?”

“I’m great. I’ve just made forty-eight million dollars in six hours,” Go recounted.

The sting of his book sales and the fact he had not attained billionaire statues remained in Dr. Strong’s mind. He didn’t feel envy, however, just a mild burn that pushed him to stretch beyond the limits of his own capacity to sell.

“That’s phenomenal,” he replied.

“Most of it is going back into Delaseer. My crypto company already has nearly six hundred billion dollars to toss about like confetti.”

“I’m happy for you,” Dr. Strong added. He really was. It was just himself that he kicked. He knew he could achieve the three comma club. He knew that his efforts on the page could match this young man with whom he became glad he had found acquaintance.

“I want your company to be a trillion dollar firm one day. I think it’s close at hand. With the markets free in the new nation, you will have full, free movement in that particular sphere.”

Go didn’t gloat but he could tell there was something in Dr. Strong’s voice that made it seem as if he didn’t have the stomach to continue to hear about his earnings. “So, how’s the book tour?” he asked. There was a tepid tone in his voice.

“It’s great. Almost the same amount of faces that I experienced in other regions of the new nation. That was it, though.”

“I’m glad about that. You’re a warrior, sir. You know how to best hold onto the good things and life and you have taught me how to meet life with a ray of light that forever extends….” Go said this to try to ease the feeling that he sensed what Dr. Strong had felt. “I mean you already know that this market exploded once all regulations and controls had been lifted from the economy for the Smarties. It’s within our grasp to change the trajectory of every life here. You have your books, Keija has her synths, Belinda has her machines, and I have crypto. We’re not super in any way. What we do is super only in the fact that we employ our minds.”

“Yes, that is true,” Dr. Strong avowed. “It is within our reach that we continue to find new talent and morally sound candidates.”

“That’s the truth anyhow,” Go said.

“Look at you! You’ve been hanging around Keija too long.”

“I guess you could repeat that. Don’t be dismayed at the fact you only have hundreds of millions.”

“I’m not.” It was true. He really didn’t mind the fact that he had the least amount of money. He knew his books inspired the people with more money to strive for more and to be greedy and selfish. He knew that greed was just an insatiable desire for more and that it remained virtuously sound. Selfishness to him was like saying you want air in your lungs which you cannot breathe for anyone else.

“Thanks for calling, Vestin. We’ll see each other at the office.”

‘Good night, Dr.”

The economist rose to his feet, saw the female synth at the top of the steps, and said to her, “I think I will take that bedroom companionship.”